


Rats after mouldy cheese, and other issues the British Government has to solve

by id_ten_it



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acid Attack, Afghanistan, Army Doctor John Watson, Australian Slang, British Legion, British Military, Brize Norton, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Diggers re-appropriating stuff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gay Bar, Graveyard of Empires, John Watson in Afghanistan, London, M/M, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft Holmes is certainly not James Bond no matter what Lestrade might say, Objectionably early Christmas decorating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, St Thomas' Hospital, Texting, Westminster, Yemen, Yemen Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Greg and Mycroft deserve, want to, and shall (I promise!) be together, but they're grown men with histories, and in real life you can't just fall into another man's arms and expect everything to go off without a hitch.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	1. What’s this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the slang term previously much in evidence for the RAMC, who are part of a problem Mycroft needs to solve.
> 
> I have never been to Afghanistan, however I do live in its shadow so I hope this is realistic and reflects the difficulties and experiences many have gone through (and will stop a certain someone from whinging over my shoulder when I'm reading).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for the story at the end of this chapter.

“I don’t suppose” says John lazily, as the weather moves from the Falklands to warmer climes (Sherlock deduces John has a friend recently posted south), “that you’ve seen a lot of MASH. BFBS played it interminably. Well, that and Hogan’s Heroes. There’s this episode where they all had dreams…the war kept interfering. We laughed at the time, but Chalky still topped himself out there.” He flicks over to the BBC, ready for the six pm news, and turns the oven on ready for dinner.

After John’s allusion to a colleague’s suicide, and the obligatory quarter of an hour while John catches up with the day’s news, Sherlock makes tea. He doesn’t bring the statement up again, but he doesn’t _not_ bring it up again either. John’s distracted enough by an article on the efficacy of deep water running at preventing injuries yet boosting performance, that he doesn’t seem suspicious of the tea. Sherlock – who doesn’t spend enough time training to worry about niggly issues like overuse injuries – settles with his phone and a mug. He doesn’t want tea, but if he makes two cups then John fusses less, and Sherlock needs the space.

_Legitimate research recommendation for responding to probable trauma flashbacks – SH_

After two minutes, with no reply text forthcoming, Sherlock has started his own search, and has begun to test the hypothesis that the human brain is both unimaginably capable and unbearably messy. He reads about initial trauma response – and learns little – then the difficulties moral men have when forced to make amoral, ambiguous, or impossible, choices. He is glad not to be a moral man. On the sofa, John stretches, checks his watch, frowns, finishes his tea, and moves to his room. The familiar sounds of retrieving gym gear, toiletries, shopping bags, and a drink bottle, are a soothing background to Sherlock’s research.

_Reading list on cloud. Will probably be happier on door side of bed, don’t let him sense you expect anything. Keep to routine – MH_

As though Sherlock doesn’t understand self-fulfilling prophecies or the importance of routine to the mediocre mind. Still, the provided readings appear useful, and Mycroft has more experience in this arena.

_Do you need a military file? – MH_

_No. Story not interesting. Didn’t realise you support the DSM – SH_

_It has some uses. The suicide was obviously interesting to JW. His therapist has an opening Friday pm. Better therapist has an opening that morning. I’m working late tonight. – MH_

_We’ll be fine. Enjoy the Australians – SH_

_Indonesians. – MH_

John seemed much as normal as he prepared for bed; perhaps a little more inclined to keep his mug close to his chest but certainly not displaying any symptoms of being concerned about missing out on sleep in favour of nightmares.

“Sleep well” Sherlock offered, darting a smile up at his partner.  
“Yeah. Try not to stay up too late eh? Must be almost time for a new case.”  
“I’ll come to bed soon.” Sherlock promised, smiling as reassuringly as he could. John rolled his eyes, and was asleep by the time Sherlock made it to the bedroom. So far, so normal. It didn’t take a genius to note the steady increase of John’s breathing as the moon skidded across the sky, although only a genius noticed it. Sherlock had read about the possible reactions of touching a man in this condition, and kept his neck and face away from possible attacks as he lay a hand on John’s shoulder.

John was dreaming of Dave-o, larger than life and the best thing he’d seen in Helmand. Dave-o, swearing in a steady monotone at the unremitting diet of meatballs, and mildly offering to stone the flaming crows as rockets rained down on the base. Dave-o, offering John a pull of hooch from a mouthwash bottle, shaking with laughter as they recalled the soldier they’d farewelled on the ramp that morning.  
“She always did that thing with her eyes” the massive Australian fluttered his sun-bleached lashes for half a minute, “strewth! Kill ya soon as look at’ch’ya. Remember that sheep? Bloody hell.” Images of a slight, dignified, senior officer, calmly informing the men that ‘if you are going to enjoy a sex toy then the women need to have one to enjoy too.’ Watching her stalking off sure they’re about to be charged. 'None of you blokes can satisfy, that’s for sure' she'd beamed, returning not to charge them but to make them blush, trim pilot’s fingers modelling a phallus out of seeming nothingness, attaching it to the offending blow up sheep…John had laughed till he cried.  
She hadn’t been his first ramp ceremony, she wouldn’t be his last, but she was the first when he hadn’t been interrupting his rest cycle to attend, and being full of something other than the desperate need for sleep had touched him. Dream-John cried with Dave-o, turned away to put down the bottle, and felt a hand on his shoulder. “M’fine” he tried to say, straightening, but all that happened was Chalky, whiter than his name, flopping to the floor in front of John. John was too immersed now to recognise this was the dream he hated, stepping into the familiar scrubbed room after farewelling a respected ma’am.

_...Figured if I was going to go I mayaswell be useful. Not like it’ll help in the long run but maybe we can at least get one guy back for his kids. We don’t do transplants here and I’ve too many tats for skin grafts but you know my blood’s clean...Chalky._

John had never told any of his patients, or their medevac teams, where the blood had come from. He felt he’d like to know, if he was a patient, but Chalky wasn’t coming back and John didn’t know how to start that conversation. It was even worse than asking families if they’d mind donating their dying relative's organs.

In his dreams, John joined a patrol, pistol in holster, weighed down with medical kit. In the real world, Sherlock shook him more firmly, but it just coincided with the aftermath of a dream-explosion. John watched a bead of sweat bedew a small, fragrant, leaf, and had a sudden moment of clarity which often comes as the mind struggles to comprehend traumatic events. In his dream, his hands stemmed blood and wrote tourniquet information under helmets. In his bed, he curled into a ball and clung to his pillow. Sherlock decided to wake him.

_Sweet tea and a warm shower – MH_

_I can look after other people alone – SH_

_Do not add as much milk as you would expect. He has probably remembered a ramp ceremony. – MH_

_Things might’ve changed since your last soldier – SH_

“Are we out of milk?” John frowned into his half drunk cup and shifted on the sofa. Sherlock knew all about the importance of breaking from a physical location…well, John always did it and Sherlock had read something about it. “I’ll get some in the morning” he offered, ruffling John’s hair and sitting close. John was slightly sweaty, but still fitted under Sherlock’s shoulder as he always had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: OMC suicide (non graphic), flashbacks to combat, multiple moral injuries, human trafficking, civil war, refugees.
> 
> ***
> 
> Title from Redgum's 'I was only 19', which Chalky, Dave-o, and the rest, blasted at various times and most certainly did not have any feelings about seeing kids exhibiting the same symptoms as the song.  
> The song was performed (by the band's lead vocalist) to Anzac troops in Timor, and two years later to Australian troops in Afghanistan.  
> [author's note: Anzac is only fully capitalised if you're talking about the original Corps.]  
> listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGDhzVi1bqU
> 
> The M*A*S*H episode John refers to is s8e22, a favourite of the director and apparently of critics (it was awarded the Humanitas Prize and was the first episode nominated for a WGA nomination). Tellingly, the laugh track wasn't used for the episode. It ends with the characters eschewing sleep (and their nightmares) for coffee. 
> 
> BFBS - British Forces Broadcasting Service. Available in the UK, and (with more programming) at most significant British Military bases, including Helmand. According to their website they mostly play re-runs of classics, and their weather coverage is a joy to behold (explore here: www.bfbs.com). 
> 
> DSM – Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The fifth revision has been described as ‘the most controversial in the manual’s history’. Mycroft has struggled with some of its decisions, including the combination of Asperger’s Syndrome (and other syndromes) into Autism Spectrum Disorder, the removal of ‘recent bereavement’ in the diagnosis of a major depressive order, and the (re)classification of asexuality.


	2. God help me, he was going home in June

Mycroft shook his head at his brother, set his phone up for emergencies only, and took himself and a cup of tea to bed. Given his last soldier had been a broad-shouldered antipodean medic, who had been taking leave prior to returning halfway round the world, had been dropped at Brize the day before, and had known Dave-o in the incestuous way of all Anzacs, Mycroft very much doubted things had changed. Not that Sherlock needed to be aware of these little dalliances. It had been a very enjoyable thirty-six-hour pass, but it was also nice to be home.

The next morning started with a guilty run, trying to make up for missing one (or two), and a promise to fit in some strength work later. The promise, like many promises to himself, was broken at the need of Queen and Country. It is impossible to make intelligent noises about Ansar Allah, Sanaa, and the relative risk to reputation if support for the Saudi Kingdom were to continue while also attempting a pull up or three. By the time Mycroft had provided enough information for ongoing support between the US and the UK, the sick taste of knowing he has doomed thousands of Yemeni to a choice between a quick death in conflict or a slow death in famine, has destroyed his desire for food. He stumbled into his underground office, pulled a face at Liz’s portrait, and leant against the wall for just long enough to push every feeling into a box where his soul used to be. Anthea is long gone – they have a standing agreement as to when she should finish work – but has left a note on his keyboard which he smiles thinly at before shredding. Four hours. Barely worth going home.

Once he is outside, he checks his phone, and registers vague disappointment at the lack of messages.

_Recovery continues well? – MH_

He is unsurprised at the lack of immediate reply. It’s three in the morning. Sherlock could be asleep, or working, or running an experiment…there are many things more reasonable men do at three in the morning than walk a few hundred yards to an empty flat while pondering the utter futility of these impossible decisions. Mycroft is jerked out of his brown study by the sounds of a scuffle, and the unmistakable yelling of “POLICE! I said drop it!” There are more, indistinct, sounds, and Mycroft’s desire to know what is happening wars with his imperative to stay safe. He glances for his security detail – half a block away and invisible as a couple of sappy lovebirds – and heads towards the yelling. As they come around the corner, Mycroft dropping into the street and half behind a car to leave space for his detail and stay out of sight of the perpetrator, four things happen.

  1. Mycroft identifies the perpetrator as a member of a black-market group trading in weapons, probably with reaches into the Middle East.
  2. Two unmarked transit vans come screaming up the street, effectively blocking the officer’s retreat. Mycroft (in a sub-deduction) vacillates between ‘kidnap of an officer of the law’ and ‘getaway vehicle following vicious attack on symbol of state security’.
  3. The security detail triangulating with the officer, facing the perpetrator. They appear about to close when the perpetrator pulls a fine-boned hand out of her pocket, expertly snapping her wrist a couple of times.
  4. The detail – and possibly the officer – finally realise they are facing an acid bomb.



Mycroft holds himself still against the side of the car, for once not noticing the grease and grime this will smear onto his light grey suit.

“Don’t do it” The bobby instructs the woman, “there’s CCTV all over this part of town, you know we’ll get you.”  
“You’ll still be ruined though and this bloody two-timing double-dealing fascist government will know what the people think of it!” she yells, but her hand has stilled and her voice sounds like it’s just going through the motions.

  
Mycroft thinks the officer might have won, when the door of the second van starts cracking open. The officer doesn’t turn her head, but it’s obvious her interest is momentarily distracted.  
“Don’t!” Mycroft’s Emma shouts, and the perpetrator wrenches her whole arm over, hitting Emma square in the chest.

The bottle shatters and Emma lunges for a puddle near Mycroft, obviously trying not to scream. Her partner and the officer run at their attacker but she skips into the van and the convoy drives off. Mycroft is already wrenching at Emma’s clothes, trying to help her limit the spread of the acid.

“I’ll get some water” Sam mutters, leaving Mycroft under the copper’s protection and racing around the corner to a convenience store as fast as his long, well-trained, legs will go. Mycroft, in more idle moments, has regretted those legs belonging to one of his staff, and in more exercise-themed moments has deeply regretted his own lack of well-trained legs.  
He hates running.

  
The officer squats down in front of Emma, wincing as she sees the extent of the burns and helping splash puddle water on the sizzling skin. “There’ll be an ambulance along soon” she promises, “they’ll sort you out.” Mycroft vaguely listens to her chattering into the radio. Emma is shivering in pain and shock, and he hopes the ambulance gets there before the cold of the water on her chest causes hypothermia.

“Shift aside boss” Sam grunts, and his capable hands start pouring bottled water all over his colleague. Mycroft lifts her chest to rest against his knees when it becomes apparent that the camber of the road is pushing some of the wash off back onto her skin. He really hopes this isn’t a sinister plot designed to distract them all before an attack on him.

Some time later, Emma is asleep in a private room at St Thomas’, Sam is sitting next to her, and Mycroft (now with a new protection team lingering nearby) is being asked yet again what made him turn towards trouble.

“It’s not the sort of thing most people would do, Sir.” The officer – Constable Amanda Evans, he should say – blinks at him.  
“I shall sign that statement when it is prepared” Mycroft returns, “but at this stage I am afraid I must return home and prepare for the day. You have my contact details.”  
Constable Evans looks somewhat askance, but Mycroft knows how to negotiate what he desires, and he is determined to salvage what remains of his rest cycle. “I’ll get a car to drop you home” Evans offers, and is chattering on her radio before Mycroft can demure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "God help me, he was going home in June" - another chapter title from Redgum's 'I was only 19'. 
> 
> Brize - Brize Norton, which at the time was home to all repatriation flights as well as running transport flights around the world. 
> 
> Ansar Allah - the original name for the Houthi movement in Yemen
> 
> Sanaa - also Sana'a, or Sana was the focus of Saudi/UAE strikes on Houthi 'rebels'. The old quarter of Sanaa was full of gorgeous buildings and is a UNESCO city of outstanding universal value due to its architecture and historical ties with various religions. 
> 
> Acid attacks in London were on the rise in 2015 (due to a variety of factors including new limitations on carrying knives) but police didn't regularly carry anti-acid first aid kits until 2017. In 2016, 455 acid-throwing type crimes were recorded in London.


	3. Three blokes and at least as many deductions

Sherlock strutted up to his brother, coat flowing behind him, Anderson glaring after him in disdain. “I didn’t want to come but your gravitational field is too hard to resist.”  
“I was hoping to avoid speaking with you. I know how you dislike being interrupted when you work.”  
“Oh this? It was the off-licence owner. Must you keep pulling smaller bodies in?”  
“If you ate more you’d be able to set up your own field, brother mine.”  
“If you ate less this wouldn’t be a problem. Or if the acid had got you.”

As though he’d heard the word, Greg looked up and met Mycroft’s amused gaze. “I don’t know what you are talking about” the elder Holmes murmured, “perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere.”  
“That’s just an excuse for you to get something more to eat” Sherlock pointed out, but they walked in perfect step around the corner. Greg assumed they stopped where Mycroft knew there were no cameras, but was more confused by the comment about the acid. Surely _Mycroft_ wasn’t the person Amanda had called a car for? He’d heard her three-up having a discussion with another senior officer, the two of them chuckling a little at her eagerness, but aside from ‘colleague was attacked by one of ‘em acid bombs’ he was none the wiser. Mycroft wasn’t the type to get involved in the dirty work. Surely not.  
Having convinced himself, Greg returned to the SOCO huddle to ensure all was in order for processing prior to continuing with questioning the offie owner.

Sherlock slouched artfully against the grimy brickwork, hooded eyes glancing up at Mycroft. That slight height advantage was unusual in the elder child, Sherlock always grumbled, but there was too much biological similarity between their parents and Mycroft for his oft-quoted expectations of adoption to be quite true. “How is John?” Mycroft asked, looking as though he really cared.  
“Fine. Why does everyone ask me that? Nobody asks how I am.”  
“I know how you are, Sherlock.”  
“You know how John is, too.”  
“Alright I shall dispense with the social niceties. How are John’s flashbacks?”  
“Mostly gone again. It really is the most odious coping mechanism. He says I should be careful in case he tries to lash out –”  
“I would have thought physically lashing out would be significantly easier to deal with” Mycroft mused, resettling his umbrella. Sherlock’s annoyed glower indicated he had said the same thing. Mycroft certainly didn’t smirk at his younger brother.

“Very amusing” the detective sulked, “what do you want?”  
In a low voice, with no noticeable inflection, Mycroft explained.

“Caring is not an advantage” Sherlock mimicked, smirking when his elder brother flushed lightly.   
“You do the same for John.”  
“John isn’t my paid bodyguard.”  
Mycroft very nearly laughed at that, but kept his amusement to a thin-lipped smile. “Consider this one of the many perks of working for me. Now off you go – and give Lestrade back his wallet, I don’t think even his patience is inexhaustible.”  
“I suppose his current boyfriend is rather trying.”  
“I don’t know if I’d qualify three meetings each ending in coitus interruptus or coitus disappointus and no plan to meet up again _trying_.”  
“Not meeting up Friday?” Sherlock smirked slyly, smirk settling into glum lines when Mycroft successfully debunked him.  
“No. Dinner with a woman Friday. Isn’t it nice to be back in an era where people can do whatever they like?”  
“Whatever.” Sherlock stalked off like a menacing crow, but as Mycroft followed him, he turned towards Lestrade and paused briefly.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. I hope my brother returned your wallet.”  
Mycroft wasn’t the sort of man to get hot under the collar without a little titillation, but if any man could achieve immediate visceral excitement, Lestrade was that man. Not that that would prevent any professionalism on Mycroft’s part. “Mr Holmes!” Greg sounded almost pleased rather than surprised at seeing the elder brother nearly six months after their last meeting. “He did thank you. It sounds as though he’ll be dropping in on the beat constables after this – I don’t know if they’re ready for him yet.”  
Mycroft returned his smile, refining his assessments regarding the poor man’s Friday night. “I doubt he will spend a long time with them. Merely long enough to deliver a name and contact for the perpetrator of an acid attack last night.”  
“Wait.” Greg rubbed his eyes in mock surprise, “you _were_ the one a car was called for last night!”  
“Please. Early this morning.” Mycroft blinked, letting his surprise show. Greg preened under the attention as they strolled together.  
“Early this morning then” Greg allowed, “I thought you always had your own driver available.”  
“How important do you think I am?” this repartee was easy, too easy. He was sinking into their rhythm with an ease he barely remembered away from the dictated dance of formal small talk.   
“Important enough to have your own driver available.” After a beat, Greg continued, “you’re alright though? Not hiding an acid burn under your waistcoat?” He let his eyes roam over the mentioned area, enjoying the light-weight pinstripe suit against those sinful legs.   
“Not at all. The victim is a staff member of mine; she’ll recover and is already wondering when she’ll be let out of bed.”  
“Glad to hear it. I guess there’s a few hospitals nearby.”  
“Mmm. St Thomas’. It was interesting to go back; I haven’t been there since Sherlock wanted to see their collection of nursing paraphernalia.”  
“Case?”  
“Case.” Mycroft swallowed a yawn, rubbing his chin ruefully. It had been a long few hours, but this last trip was both work and pleasure – and a good way to fill in the hour before going back to discuss Omani involvement in Yemen. Really, the whole Middle East had been ruined by colonisation and now the perpetrators couldn’t even meaningfully help fix their mess.  
“Get along with you. You’re dead on your feet. That attack was on night shift and I bet you’ve not had any sleep since then.” Greg’s eyes were sympathetic, and Mycroft had a short shock. It was a long time since he’d seen that look without the weight of work loyalty behind it. He gulped. “I’ve one more meeting before I can sleep and it promises to be a long one. Care for a coffee?”  
"Love one." They strode towards the Nero just peeking out from around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a lot of notes for this one!  
> Go to St Thomas' Florence Nightingale Museum (https://www.florence-nightingale.co.uk/history-of-the-collection/) and see her owl Athena! [Athena sadly ate her other pet Plato but at least they were together? Thanks Qi Elves for your knowledge!]
> 
> I'm fully aware that "coitus disappointus" is not a technical term but it fits the word pattern and Mycroft likes it.


	4. I have no fear

Despite the occasional yawn, Mycroft ordered a pot of sencha, leaving Greg to draw out his espresso like the Italians intended. “Not worried about falling asleep?”  
“Very worried about falling asleep. However there is never a decent drop of tea at these meetings so I shall be forced to either have an expired Lipton or a cup of fresh coffee. I won’t make it to sleep if I have a coffee now as well.”  
“I feel ya” Greg wrapped his too-large hands around the dainty mug, remembering frustrating nights of lying awake trying to sleep. “They didn’t keep you up too late did they? The Bobbies?”  
“I gave a statement and was then driven to the hospital to wait with Emma and then Sam while the other’s statement was taken. Then the Constable and Emma were attempting to flirt – emphasis on attempting. I retired home around half four.”  
Greg’s grimace was deeply sympathetic. “I’ve not met Amanda but if she’s as fresh as most new constables then the flirting was probably horrific.”  
“I’m no expert but I don’t envisage many women finding stilted comments about her work proficiency especially alluring.”  
“Work proficiency?”  
“I suppose when one is in a hospital gown and the other is in day old police uniform, clothes are fraught with difficulty, as is one’s general appearance.” Mycroft smiled at Greg’s chuckle, sipping some tea.  
“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe that’s why I never get very far with the ladies.”  
“They are more complex than men, I find.” The men shared a moment to reflect on this truism; Mycroft could almost see the wheels turning in his companion’s mind. “You didn’t think I was bisexual” he assessed, refilling the half-filled cup to allow more sencha to cool.  
“I figured you were gay, or maybe asexual. Thought maybe these things run in families.”  
“Oh no. Sherlock genuinely is celibate. Used to be quite the profligate. Now he sees it as an indulgence that might distract him. He is _terrible_ at moderation.”  
 _So are you_ thought Greg, but out loud he merely said, “haven’t seen you at any of the clubs.”

“I don’t often have the need” Mycroft’s cheeks coloured slightly again, “and I am supremely uncool let me assure you.” Greg chuckled, setting the small cup down with a light chink, shaking his head. “I dunno. You’re pretty self-possessed and I bet you can pull off skinny jeans.”  
“I’m very practiced at _pulling off_ skinny jeans.” Mycroft smirked, “but with the current shift to considering issues in the Mid East, I am usually out of sync with the general public.”  
“Nonsense! Someone is always having a party. What are you doing this Friday?”

“Shura meetings, dinner, then another meeting with the Indonesians.” Elegantly curved fingers checked his blackberry. “Indeed. I will be finished by one, perhaps earlier.”  
“One? Mate that’s ideal. I’ll text you the address.”

Mycroft looked at him from hooded eyes, this excited, eager, optimist who just wanted to prove one thing. Just wanted to give Mycroft some of the fun he himself enjoyed. Silencing his misgivings, Mycroft joined in the grin, nodding sheepishly. “Also an idea of what you’ll be wearing. I don’t wish to be out of place.” The ‘again’ hung between them, a story close enough Greg could almost taste, but didn’t know how to entice without sending Mycroft scurrying for cover. As he weighed his options Mycroft’s phone rang and the bureaucrat quickly drained his cup and emptied the pot into the china before answering. The steam rose gently as Mycroft held the phone up, rolling apologetic eyes at Greg.

“Yes I see...naturally…of course…ten minutes” Greg grimaced in sympathy as Mycroft continued to talk, checking his own phone compulsively. He had nothing important happening at work until the next lot of reports were through, and not a lot vital happening outside of work either. Still, there were always photos of his nephews’ artwork, and his sister’s puppy. Greg was tossing up between different articles (‘Win cheap tickets to this weekend’s match!!’ or ‘shock injury announcement by Chelsea’) when Mycroft tucked his phone back into his pocket and settled in to finish his tea. “I am afraid I need to head off.” His smile twisted lightly, rueful, “some pressing business.”  
“It’s alright. Didn’t expect a drink with you at all so this is a bonus!” Greg grinned up at his companion, unexpectedly buoyed by the multiple personal facts Mycroft had shared, and most certainly looking forward to dragging him dancing.

***

Mycroft, who owned more formal wear than most men owned clothes, and was not stingy with lounge- and casual-wear either, was somewhat at a loss. It was the shoes. Or possibly the shirt. Gregory had said jeans, closed shoes, and a collar, but Mycroft looked more like a formally dressed Silicon Valley investor than a man about to enjoy a late night club crawl. He had to get this sorted before the meetings started. Turning to his drawers, he found a polo shirt in tasteful salmon (offset with blue piping, he was no swine), removed the belt on his jeans, and checked the mirror again. The tight trousers would stay up without the belt, but now there was nothing paired with his oxfords unless he changed watches or attempted a leather necklace. He didn’t want to send that sort of signal yet, however, so perhaps plimsolls would be more appropriate…they were certainly in vogue. In the end Mycroft left both out and was suited up for the second round of meetings with time to spare. Amazing what one could do with a little motivation.

***

Greg tried really hard to be on time. He really did. It’s just that he was the sort of person who always ended up tangled up in other things. In this case, ‘other things’ meant stepping in on an attempted pickpocketing as he strolled through Trafalgar Square. Not the most direct route, but there was a peace about it at night, free of most of the tourists, the fountain glowing neon, and the whole bathed in the austere lights of the National Gallery. A peace that was broken on this particular night by an opportunistic attempt to lift a lady’s purse.

It didn’t take all that long to sort it out, but it took long enough that he really should have elected to use a taxi for the last mile or so. Still, taxis weren’t easy to come by and there was no guarantee there wouldn’t be traffic between him and Soho. The night was warm and dry for a change, so he reassured Mycroft he was on his way and relaxed into an easy lope. By the time he hit The Village and turned off Wardour St onto Compton, he was about ten minutes late. Still, Mycroft had shifted the time earlier at quite short notice so he didn’t feel entirely at fault. Side-stepping around patrons enjoying the weather and a cheeky smoke, he slipped into the well-known interior. Every time, it felt like coming home. The dark finish along the walls, the thronging people, the cheerful noise and energetic music, the casual display of flesh and heady mix of eroticism and love between different couples all combined to make Greg feel yet again that this was a safe place to be whoever he felt like.

Knowing Mycroft was already waiting, he scanned the milling crowd carefully. The other man was lounging up against the bar, chatting to a man half his age – somehow achieving intimacy without even laying a hand on him – and sipping a terrifyingly bright cocktail. He actually looked relaxed, though in all honesty Greg couldn’t remember seeing him uncomfortable outside one of Sherlock’s stints in hospital. More to the point, he looked _good_. Very good, as he half turned back to the barman and downed the rest of his drink with just slightly exaggerated movements, emphasising the line of his body, the curves encased in dark denim. Greg’s best jeans suddenly felt a little shabby. And how on earth’s could Mycroft pull off pink, for crying out loud?

His musings were interrupted with a touch to his shoulder and warm breath along his cheek. “Buy ya a drink handsome?”  
“Nah you’re all good mate. Cheers.” Greg shook his head but smiled, trying to show his appreciation. The fellow smiled back, teeth white against skin darker than the highly-polished mahogany lining the bar.  
Buoyed by this indication of his own worth, Greg slid up to Mycroft just as the other man turned, depriving Greg of one very good view but offering him another. Unnoticed, the young thing next to Mycroft dissolved onto the dance floor towards the back of the room. Mycroft in a suit was sleek and powerful. Mycroft in a polo short and black jeans was casual and assured. His hair flopped artfully towards one eye, more curled than Greg normally saw it, and if Greg wasn’t much mistaken the man was freshly showered but hadn’t been near a razor since they last talked. Scruffy was a good look on him. Sure, he’d never win a Mr Muscles contest, but he’d hold his own in a brawl. Greg let his eyes wander, flushing a little when they locked with his companions.  
“I’m glad you turned down the man by the door.” Mycroft smiled, “I thought we both might try something new.”

Greg found himself sipping a fruity concoction that threated to ruin his liver, the two of them finding an intimate setting upstairs. “I can’t blame him for offering though” Mycroft continued, as though the interceding time dealing with bar tenders and wrangling chairs hadn’t happened.

“I almost enjoyed turning him down.” Greg responded, resolutely not gulping the delicious drink down in one go, “Not used to having them offering, but it’s nice to have an even better option.” Mycroft’s cheekbones tinged pink, shifting as he gulped and half-shook his head. Greg pressed home his advantage. “Turning them down’ll come in handy when I need to fight these others off to get a drink with you myself.” There had been more than one lad at the bar eyeing Mycroft; Greg wasn’t naive enough to think they were all purely appreciating his suavity. “None of them asked you here” he added, eyes leaving Mycroft in no doubt of his meaning. In for a penny in for a pound, after all.

“I do have one question before we go further” the ginger replied cheeks aflame but still leaning in slightly and angling his head just so. Greg gulped “yeah?”  
“What happened to the purse?”  
Dead silence.

For a moment Mycroft thought he’d missed the mark, but then the two of them were laughing away. “Got it back for ‘er” Greg chuckled, “she was very pleased.”  
“She has good taste.” Mycroft let one arm dangle along the armrest, hand drooping elegantly onto the table. Greg wondered briefly if one and a half cocktails in quick succession had left Mycroft trollied, but the drink was held steady and sure. It appeared that calm-and-collected Mycroft wasn’t the same thing as actually relaxed Mycroft. Greg appreciated the knowledge he was seeing the latter, smiling up at the taller man, downing his own drink and mirroring Mycroft’s intimate posture. “So do I. Come dance.”

Dance, in the end, was a nice way of wording it. Compton wasn’t really a dance club, but they didn’t want to venture down the road where they couldn’t talk. The DJ was eager to please though, and they gave themselves up to the beat and tried to get to every inch of the dance floor. Greg, in a moment of clarity, wished he’d suggested this earlier. It was so easy. Almost as easy and natural as following the beat under the darkened ceiling. It was an interminable time later, when they were back to being a couple on the dance floor, that the rhythm slowed and they found themselves swaying against each other. “C’mon” Greg muttered into the hollow under Mycroft’s ear, “let’s sit down.”

Mycroft chuckled, steering them back to the seats along the wall, “this isn’t that sort of establishment” he admonished Gregory, but he drew the Inspectors right arm to his left side before mussing his cheek with dry lips.  
“Short sighted of us” Greg chuckled, turning his face at the last minute, eyes wide in the darkness, “shoulda known this’d go well.”  
“Given it wasn’t initially a date…” but there was no acrimony in his tone, and they returned to exploratory kisses soon after. Eventually, of course, they had to decide whether to stay and talk or leave and enjoy themselves. It wasn’t hard to guess.

As they stood, Sam handed his new partner (his until Emma got out of hospital and was cleared again) 20 quid and rolled his eyes. “Should’ve known not even the Guv just does it for work” Qaseem counselled Sam, laughing and pocketing the purple paper.  
“Yeah yeah. Hurry up, we’ll lose them.”  
“Didn’t know watching was your thing!” the two strolled after their employer at a discrete distance, keeping the banter up both because they wanted to and because it made them instantly appear like two normal blokes heading home instead of two highly trained bodyguards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Clash's "London Calling" (yip it's cliched but just be thankful I didn't go for "come out of the cupboard"!)
> 
> 'Bobbies' is (a little dated) slang for police, name from their founder Bobby Peel.
> 
> There is a 2-3 hour time difference between Saudi Arabia and the UK, which is just enough to be a pain and not enough to warrant switching to a different schedule, hence Mycroft's issue with being free before the DJs all pack down. 
> 
> If anyone has an idea of which premier league team Greg supports please let me know. I had to go with the one closest to the Police college as default but I'm sure he was an avid supporter before he got there, hence the clickbait about Chelsea.
> 
> "The Village" is another gay bar (on the corner of Wardour and Compton so I am informed). It looks a lot of fun so head there when it is safe to do so!
> 
> Unnamed Dude Hitting On Greg, Emma, Amanda, Sam, and Qaseem are all deliberate decisions to try and diversify the story. Obviously with Sherlock we're a bit constrained by the traditions and history surrounding the fandom and I personally enjoy the rich heritage we are building on, but where there is no reason not to bring in some diversity well, isn't that what fanfic is all about?


	5. Thee haughty tyrants never shall tame

"Are they together enough that we can just give them one present?" John mused, failing spectacularly to wrap the box of goodies they (he) had purchased for Mrs Hudson. Sherlock hummed noncommittally and tuned his violin. "C'mon" John urged, "you're his brother. You're the resident genius. You're the one that knows these things. You have to tell me if they're living together or not."  
"Not" Sherlock drawled. Abruptly, he threw himself down into his chair and plucked at a very flat G-string. He appeared ready to say something else, but as John watched he merely unbent from his hunch and set about sharpening the offending string. John watched fondly, taped the last bit of paper into place, and stretched. "Are you listening Sherlock?" Once he obviously had his partner's attention he frowned, "you have to buy Mycroft a present and you have to show it to me first _and_ I have the right to veto it if it isn't something I want to be associated with. _But"_ he continued as Sherlock started his well-worn complaints, "I will buy Lestrade a present from the both of us and you will be allowed to cash in on any social capital that gives us. Do you understand?"  
Silence.  
"Do you understand, Sherlock?"  
When John looked prepared to ask the question for a third time, the detective turned his sullen nod into a slightly-less-sullen "I understand, John."  
"Good. Go on - what are you playing?"

***

Mycroft let a little sigh slip out as he stepped into their flat. The last seven months had been intense and his normal routine of devoting at least ten hours of each day to work was challenged. The month before, he had devoted a scant few hours on a damp Saturday morning, fleeting hours on a lonely Sunday night, and the rest of the weekend to Gregory. He wondered if this split focus was what made others so wildly incompetent, but so far his outputs remained unchanged so he could only conclude yet again that Mummy was right about other people. Unwinding his scarf, replacing black leather gloves into his coat pocket and topping his coat-stand with his warm hat, he continued to the bedroom for slippers and a jumper. Gregory's winter-weight court suit jacket was strewn on the bed, tie a splash of river green in the rich brown room. There was no other sign of his partner.

Mycroft sighed again as he sat and availed himself of warm slippers, removing his cufflinks, tie, and waistcoat, and covering his Egyptian-cotton shirt with a grey cashmere jumper. Previously, when feeling like this, he'd eye up a warming vindaloo and cooling beer then settle for a few rice rolls from the local Thai. Now, he had a partner. According to tradition, now he should go and find said partner, inform him of his vulnerable emotional state, and obtain solace.  
Mycroft had never been good at being vulnerable.

To be honest, he hadn't been good at obtaining solace, either, which he predictably blamed on parents teaching him to eat his emotions once they had more pressing concerns (Sherlock, Eurus) to be going on with. Gregory had helped with the solace piece though, and the two of them had quite the ritual, but the signs pointed to this being a night when Gregory would be requesting help as well. Mycroft smoothed collar points over grey wool and headed downstairs.

***

Financially, relocating to Mycroft's town flat - easy commute to Westminster or the Yard - made sense. Emotionally, Greg hadn't been too concerned about sharing so much space with Mycroft. After all, they both lived busy lives and scheduling time together was easier when it didn't come with a massive commute. Besides, Greg had held off on moving in with his wife until they had been married and look where that had ended up. But despite going through every room and moving Mycroft's furniture and art (such as it was) around so more of Greg's could fit in, the flat didn't feel like the sort of place you could flop on the couch with a curry and a beer. Knowing its owner, perhaps that was part of the point. Still, Greg tried. He needed the time to regroup before the biggest part of this whole nightmare of a case turned up and tried to comfort him. Bless the man, sometimes he didn't seem to understand other humans at all. 

"Long day?" long fingers gripped, squeezed, gripped again at Greg's slumped shoulders.  
"Mhm." They'd discovered early on that a shoulder rub satisfied the Inspector's desire for physical intimacy while assuaging Mycroft's general discomfit with same. "I had to talk with Sherlock today." A gentle sigh, and Mycroft’s slippers slid into view before the man himself sat next to him. "I need his help but he isn't interested."  
"He keeps his own counsel Gregory, you know that. You're more than capable-"  
"I take too long. This one's personal and keeps growing." A thunk as Greg's head tilted back on the dilapidated couch he'd shifted in with. "The longer I take the more people are hurt." Greg's eyes had slid closed and he missed Mycroft running white fingers over a work-bland face. For a moment the room was still, hovered on the edge of confidences. Then Mycroft swallowed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and murmured, "Tell me about it."

Greg did. He spared no detail, he sat staring down at his hands again and told Mycroft in a steady regular tone exactly what was happening. "You were in Riyadh, and I had those two bodies turn up but no matching mispers. We knew they were bums but nothing else. No biggie, that's not unusual. Didn't hear anything else, got them autopsied and buried. Molly said it looked like they'd been frozen which is bloody weird but even in summer it’s kinda cold in some of those places and we had absolutely nothing to go on. Two months later we got a bunch of chatter about dropping homeless numbers around the port, not our division, and then you and I went to Berlin so I didn't see what happened to that. But now there's six different bits of bodies in the morgue, all apparently fatally frozen, all from guys that've been living pretty rough near the office. That's the ones we've found...nobody else is going to ask about them, are they?" Scrubbing hands through his hair, Greg glanced across at his partner, "I asked Sherlock a month ago. It's got mystery and a different MO _and_ he actually spends a lot of time with the homeless so I figured he might be attracted but he says he won't do anything. Says it isn't important enough."  
"You want me to speak with him." Mycroft suggested, flatly.  
"I want to know people in a shitty situation aren't getting knocked off on the steps of the Yard." Mutely, he turned his hand palm up on his knee, squeezing Mycroft's surprisingly calloused fingers when they clasped his.  
"An admirable desire." As if weighing his words, the diplomat paused before suggesting, "Perhaps Sherlock has his own reasons for denying you assistance. It's just possible he has other things to focus on." He shook his head when Greg opened his mouth, "I have no idea what. It just seems logical. You can do this without him, I am sure. You are more than capable. The pattern, the _modus operandi,_ the profile of the next victim, you already know a significant amount."  
"It's not enough. I can't put a guard on every park bench in the city. There's no geographic pattern, it's just there's enough bodies that I know something's up. Besides, we're snowed under with the actual cases. The ones with leads." Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand again, compulsively. "These guys deserve a hand, I want to help them, but Sherlock should be involved."  
Thinking wistfully of hot curry and cold beer, nights sprawled replying to emails and listening to old records, Mycroft nodded. "I'll speak with him tomorrow." He wanted to get up, shake off the thoughts crowding in (The Old City in Sana'a, UN delegates flapping ineffectually, Hodeidah effectively blocked off, the haunting eyes of children carrying parents, barefoot boys playing in munitions dumps, a seven year old covered in shrapnel wounds slowly dying in an abandoned storm water drain...Sherlock, either saving the world or destroying himself), but Gregory needed him. Gently, he bussed the silver hair and fingered his phone. "How about we order dinner and you tell me the rest of your day? Unless you want to come into the kitchen?" At least the kitchen would give him a task to focus on.  
Greg smiled, enjoying knowing this was part of Mycroft's way of showing he cared. "Kitchen. I think there's some veggies that need eating."  
"Come on then. Sit and talk and I'll do us a nasi goreng." He wasn't going to solve the case for Gregory. Firstly, because Gregory was more than capable, secondly, because that would involve dealing with many more people than Mycroft liked to know, and thirdly because they had early on talked about the ways Mycroft could help and while calling Greg in boring meetings or occasionally showing up with coffee was acceptable, pulling case files and presenting the answer like a precocious schoolboy's first rendering of Homer was not.

In the end, Mycroft made nasi goreng, talked about internal police politics compared to internal politics politics - to the benefit of the police - and went to sleep still turning the issue of world peace over in his mind. It wasn't so much that he wanted everyone to be happy as much as he wanted to convince everyone to do the same thing, to do the seemingly impossible. People were confusing but never boring.

***

The next night, Greg was home late. He went to football practice then one thing led to another and the team went for dinner. Mycroft didn't seem to mind, though he admitted to Greg when they were eventually together than he hadn't been able to get hold of Sherlock, admitted it with a sincerity that indicated he had genuinely tried and felt he had let Greg down. Greg was full of beer and chips and didn't really care, nodding off before he could ask if Mycroft needed glasses or if he had just been rubbing his eyes red for fun.

The night after that, Mycroft had to work. Greg arrived home in time to see Mycroft changing from his day suit into his penguin suit, slicking back his hair and fussing with his trousers. He smelt divine and looked a million pounds. Greg smiled gently and held the door open for him.

The third morning after Greg had asked for help and Mycroft hadn't, they were both at home. Mycroft was surprisingly awake for a man who had been sipping champagne at two in the morning, but Greg still let him have some of the coffee he normally enjoyed alone. "I spoke with Sherlock." Mycroft opened, once he had accepted the coffee and dubiously regarded a piece of toast. "Would you like me to talk with you about it now or should I come in later in the morning?"  
"Later" Greg grunted, scarfing his own toast with scant concern for crumbs, "early meeting and I'm not read in yet. Eleven-ish?"  
"You can buy me lunch" the diplomat smiled, giving in to the need for carbohydrates and spreading Gentleman's Relish onto the bread. "I'm free all afternoon so just let me know." Picking at his food like a disconsolate maiden aunt he added, "go on or you'll be late. See you soon." For all his fussiness, he still flushed lightly when Greg held him close for a farewell kiss, and his eyes were fond when the copper looked back to close the door.

Greg not only made it to his meeting on time, he made it to the office with time to read the previous minutes and the headlines in the report. Triumphant at holding his own and wrangling interest in the potentially frozen bodies, he sent Mycroft a text and returned to his office. As he headed back downstairs a couple hours later, he met the desk clerk directing three contractors manhandling the largest Christmas Trees Greg had seen since he took his nephew down to Trafalgar Square to see the procession. Absently holding the door open for the fir monstrosity, he wondered what they would do for Christmas. John had made it sound as though Sherlock never went to his parents for the season but was that a Sherlock-ism or a Holmes-ism? The brothers were similar but not the same by any stretch, thank goodness.

Mycroft - dressed down in waistcoat and brogues - put away the phone he'd been using as a prop and stepped over. "The meeting went well?"  
"The meeting went well. Southbank? Thought we could make it a circuit along Westminster then eat in the gardens since it's halfway decent weather."  
"If you have the time."  
"I've time. C'mon." Greg settled his scarf and started putting on gloves as they walked down the river, relaxing as they walked. "You know I enjoy lunches with you. We should do this more."  
Mycroft smiled thinly across at him, "You mean we should do this when we aren't about to talk about work?"  
"That too." Greg preceded him up the stairs onto the bridge, smirking back out of habit, knowing Mycroft would half-leer back. "Can wait until we have food though I'm guessing. If it was urgent you'd have said as soon as you knew."  
"Have you considered being a detective?" Mycroft deadpanned, easily making the crowd flow around them as they walked. Between the two of them there was no suggestion they would be the ones dodging along the crush, aiding their purposeful strides.

They were passing the scruffy branches of Queens Walk when Greg smirked across at his companion. "Feeling well hung?"  
Mycroft flushed the undeniable red of a ginger outside. "Is that a pick up line?"  
"More a come on. The Jubiloos are right there after all." Greg winked, making a salacious gesture with one hand.  
Perfectly seriously, Mycroft managed to stammer out, "I don't think a toilet based pun will relax me enough to fully rise to the occasion."  
Greg's shout of laughter made Mycroft flush more. "It's alright. I'm not convinced noon Friday is the time two employees of HM should be enjoying the public conveniences she has left us." Then he winked, disrupting the veneer of respectability Mycroft had clung to, "maybe midnight we should come down here and give 'em a go. I'll meet you here after one of those shindigs."  
"If you..." Mycroft coughed, shaking his head, apparently equal parts excited and terrified. Greg counted it as a win and took his hand "You're alright. 'Well Hung' s'one of the places here, does aged meat." Then he completely destroyed Mycroft by winking, "like I mean to when we're old and grey."

Eventually, having coughed and spluttered his way to pink-tinged equanimity, Mycroft squeezed his partner's hand. "If I'd known you were this excited I'd have suggested a half day."  
"Nah. You'll be happier if you get to work and so'll I. Means we can lie in in the morning yeah?"  
"Yes." Together, still smirking, they shed hats, gloves, and scarves and stepped into the warmth of the market. Sure enough, they emerged triumphant with meat wraps and chicken katsu, hurrying back across the river and finding a seat overlooking William Tyndale. Silence reigned as they ate, and the mood shifted towards sombre. Greg scrunched their rubbish into a small ball and waited.

"Sherlock won't be helping you." Mycroft informed him brusquely. After a few seconds he met Greg's eyes and continued, "John's been having nightmares, I'm with you, Father has some sort of growth. So Sherlock took himself off and went on a binge. He didn't take the drugs into the flat, and he appears to have limited his dose, but he isn't to work with you till he's been clean for a while. That was the deal."  
"That _was_ the deal." Greg agreed glumly, "but he's basically clean now and we're probably losing three guys a week to...whatever is happening. It's coming on to Christmas and in a few weeks these guys will be surviving on the memory of Christmas dinner. They're vulnerable as, and the Yard isn't getting anywhere. You're condemning a minimum of three men to death a week until I can solve it and all I can tell you is it's probably a gang doing something!" Breathing hard, he subsided, shocked at his own vehemence.  
"If we let him work now, we're condemning a perfectly good couple to a life apart, upsetting our parents when they have enough to deal with with Father, and - most relevantly - enabling his descent until he can be of no possible use against whatever other cases show up in your future. You know this will not be the last time you want his help, and he won't be available in six months’ time if he starts using properly now." He sounded so damned logical that Greg nearly bought the act, but he had seen the hint of fear in Mycroft's clear eyes and he understood with a thrill that had nothing to do with the steady breeze that Mycroft Holmes, sitting on a bench on Victoria Embankment, knee touching his partner's, was scared. Scared of what? Mycroft and his enormous brain was always thinking about twelve steps ahead of Greg. But Greg had spent his life learning how to understand people, and underneath everything, Mycroft was a man.  
"He might be overwhelmed with all these changes but we aren't breaking up in the hope that will jolt him back to stability and I can use him. He barely sees you anyway; it's ridiculous to react like this." The well-clad shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. Greg smiled gently, "you've got your Dad in the best possible clinic, saving an NHS spot for someone who needs it. He'll come right in no time. John'll be fine in a bit. He's like you, he just goes through these patches sometimes."  
"Like both of us." Mycroft sighed, impulsively pressing a little closer. He tentatively lifted one side of his mouth in a small sign of hope. "Most people do you know."  
"I know." Greg rested his black leather glove on Mycroft's pinstriped wool trousers, the movement subtle but sure. "He isn't your problem to solve, Mycroft. You can't fix everyone. John has a therapist, the Legion, a partner, and a job. He'll get through this and then he can help Sherlock finish getting through his using too." A further flash of insight made him add, "You aren't alone now. You don't have to protect your family alone." As though abashed by the intense scrutiny of his partner, Mycroft rolled his lips over his teeth, chewing on them like a nervous schoolboy. Greg just squeezed his thigh reassuringly and waited while the words sunk in. When Mycroft settled, releasing reddened lips to smile genuinely, Greg insisted, "You don't have to earn my love, either." Then, he pressed a chaste kiss to those brightly-coloured lips, before settling back and retrieving his hand.

"Alright" Mycroft murmured eventually, "but I still feel like that was too easy."  
"You don't always have to fight for things." As Greg followed Mycroft back to Horse Guards Parade, he added, "hey, Mycroft? Thanks for asking him, and for the bigger picture."  
"It's alright." Those pale cheeks tinged again, "perhaps I'll follow you up and we can go over the case together? Sometimes explaining things to an outsider..."  
"That'd be grand. I've got till two then I'd better get in on those other cases. At the risk of making us fit, can we walk back to Nero and grab a decent coffee?"  
"You read my mind" Mycroft re-settled his scarf more firmly in the face of a teasing gust of wind, "let's go down by the river though, the RAF has been much less of a pain than the Army recently." Greg chuckled, falling into step as they passed the giant golden Eagle. "Here was I thinking you liked a man in uniform."  
"Only a blue one." They grinned at each other, and Mycroft pushed the simmering work worries back down. He'd deal with them later; Gregory still needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Rule Britannia' (Thomas Arne)
> 
> misper - missing person
> 
> UN involvement in Yemen - Mycroft thinks disparagingly during his internal panic about the UN in Yemen, as the peace talks took a long time to start and when the fic is based no end was in sight. The talks actually stalled for good around six months later (although sporadic cease-fires have been negotiated).
> 
> Hodeidah - a key port city in Yemen which was intended to provide an avenue for providing aid (especially for the approx 12m children) in Yemen but was not used by the West due to the port being held by Houthi. Also described as the most dangerous place in Yemen - which is saying a lot in a country beset like Yemen is.
> 
> The pictures Mycroft is referencing exist, though I don't recommend looking at them before bed. Drains, which are concrete and set into the ground, were popular squatting locations in 2015 Yemen as they're far less likely to be blown up by coalition air strikes.
> 
> Trafalgar Square has one of the largest Christmas Trees in London, at 25 metres (82'), a gift from Norway to Britain given since 1947, in thanks to the support rendered in WW2.
> 
> Southbank Winter Market is just across the river from Westminster/ New Scotland Yard and has the added benefit of not only walking the boys but genuinely having a puntastic lunch spot and a wonderfully named (but reputedly not wonderfully kept) public loo. When I eventually get to London it's going to be quite the drawcard!
> 
> William Tyndale's statue is just along the embankment from New Scotland Yard (across Horse Guards Parade) - it commemorates the man who translated the Bible to English in line with his belief that it was better to follow the Bible than the way of the Catholic Church. He was run out of England (though was supported by London merchants) and was eventually killed, becoming a martyr. This work is the basis of the famous King James Bible, and the surviving copy of his work is in the British Library. This is the man that gave us phrases like 'let there be light', 'fight the good fight', 'the signs of the times', 'the powers that be', and 'a law unto themselves'.
> 
> "The Legion" - The British Legion, an organisation supporting servicemen and veterans.
> 
> "The RAF has been much less of a pain than the Army recently" - Mycroft doesn't want to walk past all the Army memorials between their lunch spot and the nearest cafe; many of them are memorialising unconventional warfare and it hits a bit close to home. (Also have you seen the two RAF memorials? They are striking.)


	6. A freshness in the center of the chest

Mycroft intercepted Greg's glower at the bright Christmas-themed takeaway mug his coffee came in, and smiled lightly. "I didn't put you down as a humbug."  
"I'm not. It's barely December." Once they were retracing their steps towards the Yard, Greg stopped in mock-terror. "Don't tell me you're one of those people who has matching decorations and a wreath for every door!"  
"You'll just have to wait and see. But I can assure you of one thing - I will do one visit to my parents this month but it will not be for Christmas Day. We will do a painful dinner and I will make Sherlock visit them as well. Separately of course." He pretended to be unmoved but Greg saw his eyes crinkle as they stepped into the warm foyer and saw the now decorated tree swamping one corner of the room. Punching the button for the lift and juggling hat and coffee cup, Greg chuckled, "when are we decorating the tree?" Then, "c'mon Mycroft!" he grasped Mycroft's upper arm and drew him into the lift, wondering at the wide eyes still locked on his. "What is it?"  
Hesitantly, the diplomat murmured, "I had not quite realised...would it be too early to find a tree tomorrow?"  
"Stomping around in the cold to wrangle a tree home then getting grouchy decorating it when I put something in the wrong place only to collapse on the couch with mulled wine and mince pies after? Sounds great!" Greg winked, "can't wait to see your Christmas jumper." He was watching closely enough to see the gulp Mycroft made at this homely image, and felt the warmth which often accompanied him these days unfurl again in his belly. This time it was Mycroft's turn to tug him out of the lift, but they were both focused on work once they were seated at Greg's desk, warm clothes strewn on his coat hooks, coffee being sipped.

"Right. What do you have?" Greg grinned at Mycroft's work tone, pulling up several files on his computer.  
"You realise if this was anyone else you'd be out of here so fast you'd meet yourself coming in?"  
"I know. RHIP. Go."  
Greg went.

"Here's the map of bodies and parts found; the blue is where suspected home areas are for the couple we identified. Autopsy reports - like I said the only commonality was significant freezing, Molly can't agree if that's what killed them. A few had matching tox reports which looks like they were given date rape drugs but honestly most of them use so many things..." Greg bit his words off, worried this would remind Mycroft of his troubled younger brother. The man seemed unfazed though, added, "they use too much to know what may react with what. Especially without stomach contents."  
"Yeah...it's hard to know too much from one thigh."  
"Only the obvious." Mycroft smiled proudly at him, "the report doesn't miss anything I could point out. What else do you have?"  
Greg's unfurling warmth rolled over happily at the praise. "Well, no witness statements. The people we think we've identified apparently hadn't been seen for some weeks, and nobody else is talking. No-one is coming forward reporting mispers who meet the profile which isn't unusual with homeless but I'd expect to see something from one of the charities. Everyone who's found a body has been several classes above the victim, more likely to be your friends than mine f'you know what I mean."  
"Please. You know I am friends with all sorts of people." Mycroft smiled lightly at his joke, enjoying watching Gregory roll his eyes.  
"So we were throwing some ideas around yesterday and thought maybe we could trace the freezer. I know that's a huge order but it's gotta be a new one or a really big SOP change for this to be a new problem. Just...we have no idea how to track a walk in freezer in London." Greg sighed, gulping at his coffee, "If these guys are frozen to death then someone is moving the bodies. It's not a morgue cause we've checked them, and some of these remains are from pretty big people so it's got to be a decent walk in space. I don't reckon it's from a big kitchen cause they're always busy and you can't easily move a frozen body around without being seen..."  
Mycroft nodded along, sipping his drink and idly considering an image of a severed shoulder. "I agree. What else can we rule out?"

Greg frowned, lips rolling as he half thought out loud. After a few moments he tried, "probably knew what they were getting into. Like, you don't just walk into a freezer thinking you'll die. So maybe a bribe of free food or it was off and looked like a good place to shelter."  
Carefully, Mycroft suggested, "or the freezer was moving."  
"Moving? Wait..." he followed Mycroft's gaze to the image on the screen. "The bruising? You know what caused it."  
"I have an idea." With a faint grimace, Mycroft stood, placed his jacket and waistcoat over his chair, and moved to the closed door. While Greg watched, bemused, he paced out four paces, squared up, and charged the metal frame. At the last minute he pivoted at the hips, plowing into the solid metal with his left shoulder and letting out a soft oof that Gregory mimicked. "What on earth's..." The Inspector was up and leading his partner back to his chair, solicitous. "Mycroft! I'll get you some ice."  
"Please. Quickly. As much as you can."  
"Does it hurt that badly?"  
"No but if they were in a cold truck then the bruising would be quite different." Gregory stared with astonishment, then shook his head, but whatever response he was going to make was curtailed by Mycroft's repeated demand for ice. By the time Greg got back, there were a few people studiously ignoring the muffled sounds of a man throwing himself repeatedly against Greg's office doorframe.

"Hey now. You're scaring the locals. Come and get iced up." He winced in sympathy as Mycroft slapped the ice on with little regard for his clothing. "M'not letting you out enough these days?"  
"Contrary to popular belief I am an analyst, not a spy." Mycroft retorted, relaxing a little and sipping his lukewarm coffee, "can you imagine me in the field? There are _people_ there."  
"You love people."  
"I love you." Mycroft smiled softly for a split second, finished his coffee, and regarded the rivulets of water running down his shirt front with detachment. "I estimate a further five minutes will greatly assist in establishing the pattern of bruising. How about you tell me about your Christmas traditions instead. If we are going to spend of the season together I should know what to expect when you aren't being a chronologically-bound humbug."  
Greg chuckled, rubbing Mycroft's other shoulder. "I love you too. Probably more than I should given you go trying to destroy yourself and my office to help solve a case when you should be looking at real work."  
"This is important too. C'mon. Talk to me."

Greg couldn't help a wee grin at the acknowledgement that policing was also important. "Normally go to some mates house parties the week of, like John and Sherlocks and stuff, then the big day go round to a siblings. We all get together - odd years on Christmas, even years on New Year - muck round with the kids and eat too much. Years we don't get together I work. Guess you do too?"  
"Not if I have something better to do...?" Mycroft lifted one eyebrow in a question. "Of course there's a big difference between upsetting Sherlock and upsetting your Great Aunt Emily."  
"My Great Aunt Emily would love to meet you. She's a vicious chess player and is always writing into the Times to tell them mistakes in their crosswords."  
"You realise I'm terrible at chess."  
Greg rolled his eyes, but said nothing as the subject was effectively changed when Mycroft carefully placed the bags of ice in one spot of stained carpet near the window and methodically stripped off his shirt.

Gregory's eyes dilated a little despite the firmly professional setting. "You have no idea how many fantasies you're fulfilling right now."  
"I have some idea." Fastidious movements soon revealed a shoulder already colouring a bright purple. Mycroft and Greg's heads cocked as the compared the image with reality.  
"I buy it" Gregory agreed after a few moments of scrutiny. "I reckon that's exactly what happened. Anyone told you you're a genius?"  
"Not since last night" Mycroft's eyes twinkled as he dressed again, layers of wool and cotton carefully hiding him from view. "Where does the ice belong?"  
"I'll take it out now. See if there's anything else in the files we missed eh?" Gregory's eyes caught his for a moment, granting permission, before he hurried off.

By the time he had returned the ice, reassured the officers, and tossed their coffee cups to the recycling, Greg was wondering if Mycroft was going to broach whatever issue he was clearly struggling with. With the pressure off him on the homeless case, thanks to a Holmes, Greg had the mental space to look up and see his partner needed help and, more importantly, he could actually help him. He returned to the office determined to do so, blatantly exploiting Mycroft's meeting-free afternoon and obvious disinclination to be in the office.

"Ah. A couple small points I think might assist."  
"Yeah?" Gregory returned to his seat, perhaps a little closer than he had been before.  
"Possible abrasions along the exposed skin. Sherlock would be able to tell you if they were definitely caused by being thrown out of a vehicle but I am sure Molly Hooper is able to assist in the meantime." Mycroft smiled his thin smile, "Really Gregory. Do not be surprised I remember the names of those important to you. They are therefore important to me."  
"I..."Greg attempted to school his face, "I'm not surprised? It's really nice actually. Ta." He cleared his throat. "You said a couple?"  
"You won't like it. This is a gross overstep of our professional relationship and a particularly nefarious crime." They locked eyes again, Mycroft looking almost sorrowful.  
"S'it to do with whatever's keeping you up at night?"  
"No." Mycroft's nose wrinkled slightly  
"I did notice. Just...I'm sorry. There was a lot going on. I shouldn't've dumped on you without checking first."  
"Perhaps we should talk about these personal matters at home. Or at least when we have concluded discussing the case." His words were clipped but Mycroft didn't seem angry, more trying to keep everything together. Greg nodded "Go ahead."

Easing his shoulder a little, Mycroft dropped his voice to a low murmur, unlikely to carry past Gregory. "Combining the road rash, attempts to leave a refrigerated truck, and the identified individuals having ties to overseas activity, I added a couple pieces of information you couldn't have known which was there have been significant closures at the Jungle and increasing attempts to build London in to a people smuggling network."  
" _Should_ we have known about that?"  
"It's been in the newspapers but it's a bit of a stretch." Mycroft waited for Gregory's response, but he did no more than nod and gesture he should continue. "I surmise these body parts are from failed smuggling attempts, and some of the homeless have been enticed in to be used as guinea pigs. Probably some of them have been pulled in to be sold on somewhere else...I can give you some people to contact if you would like. It's entirely your choice, Gregory. I...I may not even be right."  
He was obviously trying hard to make his words match the professional respect he had for Gregory, and just as obviously leaving the decision to his partner. The Iceman was an automaton who would ride roughshod of his own mother to get his way but Mycroft, Gregory's partner, painstakingly left police issues to the policeman.

“You’ll be right, don’t be silly. So I’ll take the contact details now and pass them on to Sally then I’m free to talk if you’d like to. Or we can talk when we’re both at home.”  
“Go and talk with Sally. I’ll talk with Anthea.” Mycroft fished out his phone and settled back into Greg’s chair.

Mycroft didn’t cry, and he didn’t share secrets. Half an hour later he was very close to the first and almost wishing he could do the second merely to wrench the details of his problem out into the open. Aside from resting a hand on his knee, Gregory had mostly sat quietly and still, feeling like the worst partner ever as he listened to the combined issues of work and home compound Mycroft to a man in need of a hot curry and a cold beer (or a hug).

“So you’re saying there’s this massive civil war on in Yemen but we’re joining in and you know it’ll be bad, there’s a bunch of other countries playing silly buggers with your employers, and we might all get blown up by some guy with a nuclear weapon.” Mycroft nodded damply, rolling his eyes at the simplification. “Then” Gregory continued with more emphasis, “I was a selfish boyfriend, Sherlock has completely failed to deal with _his_ boyfriend, your parents are falling apart, you’re dealing with Uncle Rudy’s random ten-year’s-later clause –“ Mycroft caressed his signet ring – “and you’re probably about to go into the field or something as well.” His voice held no rancour; their work had been discussed clearly between them months ago.  
“Gregory you know I won’t go into the field for anything less than family. I am no James Bond.”  
“I still don’t believe you.” Greg smiled lovingly, “all I’m saying is I’m sorry I couldn’t clear my brain earlier to look after you.” He offered one solid palm up for a hand clasp. “I’m sorry for not telling you I’d noticed, also.”  
The other man hesitated, then entwined their fingers. “I would prefer it if you acknowledged it. But…but thank you for trusting me to tell you no if I needed to.” Another hesitation, then, “There is…little protocol for when we are both in need simultaneously.”  
“There will be” Greg squeezed Mycroft's suspiciously-calloused fingers, “we’ll work one out. We always do.” They sat in companionable silence for a few moments before Mycroft cleared his throat and blew his nose. “I should return to the office. One last push and all that.”  
“Once more into the breach dear friends?”  
“For Lizzie, England, and St George.” Mycroft quipped, standing and drawing Gregory up as well. More seriously, he gave the policeman’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “Thank you. I’ll see you tonight. Told Anthea I needed a quiet night in. She’s quite the fan you know.”  
“She’s not the only one. M’potty about you myself.”  
“Hopeless” Mycroft rolled his eyes, stiffly easing his badly-bruised shoulder into his coat and allowed Gregory to settle his scarf. “Till tonight. Give those contacts a go and don’t tell them I was here for goodness’ sake.”  
“Turf wars?”  
“Turf wars.”  
“I’ll be good. See ya tonight.”

***

That Saturday went exactly as Greg had described. They rose late, feasted on marmite toast and too much tea, and sallied forth to buy the biggest, sheddiest, smelliest, tree they could find. Mycroft put on a shockingly plebeian Christmas CD and they both got tangled up in the lights while singing along to saccharine hits. “Mycroft” Greg called, delighted, as he rooted through the box of decorations, “these are _home made._ ”  
“Of course they’re homemade. Why would I buy those awful matched, mass-produced, impersonal decorations when I can spend the week wondering if this is the year I go traditional and use real candles, then give in and use all the ornaments I already have.” He obviously read the question in his partner’s eyes, for he added, “Mummy thought it would be good for us to have a creative outlet and we were always together at Christmas due to term holidays. Continuing the tradition stops her fussing so much. It is…somewhat diverting.”

Greg held up a large ball ferociously covered in a bloody sword fight scene and topped with a jaunty black skull-and-cross-bones ribbon. “Sherlock?”  
“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was fond, and Greg leant over him (and his hideous Christmas jumper) to hang the truly terrifying ornament. “What else is there?”  
“Take a look.” Greg needed no second invitation, revealing in short order a bauble with a shrink-wrapped family photo, a glass ball with a violin inside, and a large red santa-shaped decoration which had been skilfully repainted to look like Mycroft.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Father. To make Sherlock laugh.” The much-thinner man hung all the decorations on the tree and it was hard to tell if he was hurt or not. Surely, Greg reasoned, you wouldn’t keep something like that if it hurt?  
“These are amazing! How old were you? Thirteen? I was barely able to write my name then.” Greg continued to rummage, but his heart registered the pleased beam Mycroft fought hard to control. There were ornaments ranging from the downright bizarre (four-year-old Sherlock was apparently into both glitter _and_ pirates), to sad (fifteen-year-old Mycroft had selected a star-shaped ornament to paint in confronting black and red “Mummy cried but Uncle Rudy gave me the ring when we were hiding outside for a smoke”), to clever (twenty-eight-year-old Mycroft had found a double decker bus and worked each passenger into a previous Prime Minister), back to bizarre (Sherlock again. Older Sherlock had done twisted things with mirrors), to hilarious (Mycroft’s sense of humour showed strongly when it came to caricatures and puns – especially intricately drawn puns which apparently required a working knowledge of four languages and Victorian popular culture to understand. Mycroft was still giggling when Greg hung it up), to intricate (eighteen-year-old Mycroft had painstakingly rendered a map of England with what Greg suspected was the finest brush money could buy), to touching. The last one Greg found was a plain grey ornament about the size of Gregory’s open palm. It appeared completely blank, just a good-quality, boring, wooden sphere.

Mycroft smiled shyly, his cheeks the especial pink they went when he felt something deeply. “I’d like us to have our own tradition. To mark things our own way. Together.” Shyly he got two figurines out of his pocket, one a policeman, the other dressed in a plain black suit, and offered them to Gregory. “I hoped you’d like to hang these together then maybe…decorate something with me?”  
What could Greg do but help Mycroft place the figurines, then put the empty ornament down to reassure his partner that a tradition together sounded exactly right.  
"You always stop me being too boring and grey" Mycroft chuckled when the boring ornament was completely covered in slightly wonky felt-tip work.

***

“Here’s your present, Greg, and one for you, Mycroft.” John was juggling their guests and Sherlock’s suspicious behaviour with ease. He’d been sleeping well for weeks now; it had been nearly as long since Sherlock last used anything stronger than a whisky.

“We just got you one joint one mate. Sorry.” Greg hefted over the bag for the other couple with a sheepish grin, “cheers.” His thanks was repeated in a long whistle when he opened the gift, “seriously. Thanks. This is awesome!”  
“Sherlock picked it.” John stated dutifully, glancing over at the skulking detective.  
“I did!” he crowed, once it was apparent this would result in a positive response. Greg chuckled, rolling his eyes and submitting to the charade. “I can tell. Cheers Sherlock.” Hugs all round, then Mycroft was shaking John’s hand and smiling lightly. “Thank you John. Exactly what I was looking for.” It was obvious to all who had done the work.

John accepted their thanks with aplomb, and let Sherlock take far more than his fair share of them, but once they were alone he swatted at the detective. “You told me they weren’t together!”  
“They aren’t. They can’t be. Mycroft is too miserable for anyone to love.”  
“Mate. You’re a genius but you’re dense. They’re heading home right now and I bet they won’t be apart all Christmas.” Before Sherlock could sulk, John smiled and ruffled his hair, “which we won’t be either. C’mon.”

***

The Holmes parents were charmed by Greg - not that Mycroft had expected any differently - but the real win for Mycroft was the discussion they had on the drive home about relationship protocols.

The Lestrade family were charmed by Mycroft - not as much as Greg himself was. They had met various siblings before and Mycroft knew a fair amount of course, but meeting twenty odd people was a big difference. Greg spent the whole day tracking a series of Mycroft interactions, all of them relaxed and sociable. He helped in the kitchen, he put the new train set together with the offspring, and he graciously allowed Great Aunt Emily to win twice at chess before defeating her in twelve deft moves. "Ya bring that one back next week" The matriarch instructed her favourite nephew, "he's t'only one of ya talks ta me like I've all me marbles."  
"Maybe not next week...he probably has-"  
"Of course next week, if you will allow me." Mycroft slid an arm around Greg's waist and smiled his winning smile at Emily. "A lady must never be left wanting."  
Emily laughed and swatted at him, "Ya're a terror Myc! Take him 'way 'fore he does something not fit for t'sprogs."  
Mycroft gravely kissed her wrinkled cheeks, submitted to a round of kisses and back-slaps from the adults, and waved at the kids who were blobbed out watching a Disney film.

"You know" Mycroft said softly, "if you were taking the boys down to the Christmas lights, I think they might like to get a lift back in a car with hot chocolate, don't you?"  
Greg grinned, squeezing his knee, "you're amazing, love. I'd love the two of us to take the scallywags along together. Just...what about the upholstery?"  
"Kids can be well behaved" Mycroft tried, but rolled his eyes at Greg's face, "first, it'll be worth it. Second, we've made more than enough mess in the car before today. Bit hypocritical don't you think?"  
"Emily's right. You are a terror. C'mon. Let's go inside and grab a drink. I need it after a day like today."  
Mycroft followed him out of the car, then knocked on the window, the first time Gregory had seen him interact with the driver. "I know you don't celebrate Christmas, Jitish, but your girls might like to take a look at the bags in the boot. I don't imagine I'll see you until next year so please wish Devi a Happy New Year from me and thank her for putting up with our unreliable hours."  
Jitish cleared his throat, "thanks very much Sir. And a Merry Christmas to you too."  
"Thank you. Have a good evening."

Gregory snuggled close once they were inside, "you never talk to the staff."  
"Don't be ridiculous. Good staff are invisible. I talk to them when it is important. That is all."  
Gregory laughed, sipping some Oban and nuzzling hopefully, "Christmas is important?"  
"Family is important." Mycroft sighed, reaching up and obediently rubbing Greg's hair. "Die Hard?"  
The surprise on Greg's face was priceless. Mycroft was still laughing when they turned on the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Rumi's "Two kinds of Intelligence", specifically referring to the non-academic kind of intelligence.
> 
> The Jungle - a refugee camp in France, often the starting point of illegal immigration attempts.
> 
> Mycroft's "Lizzie, England, and St George" is the final line of the stirring speech Greg misquotes ("Once more unto the breach dear friends!") but with the appropriate monarch's name twisted to fit the rhythm. Well done Mycroft, you are very funny!
> 
> It's entirely possible the police and businessman decorations are the same ones used to top their wedding cake, but that may be a story for another day.
> 
> Oban - some writers insist on calling it the American word ('scotch') which is more than a little jarring. Hopefully the combined brit-picking of the team has resulted in no such faux-pas but please comment if we missed anything!
> 
> ***
> 
> This was going to be an angstier work but it already has a pretty gruesome suicide, intermittent flashbacks, a patrol gone wrong, plenty of miscommunication, moral injuries a-plenty, human trafficking, a civil war, refugees, and obnoxiously early christmas decorations.  
> So it's going to be finished here on a soppier note than originally planned, and perhaps the muse will gift me another story with more internal conflict and slightly less external angst at a later date. Thank you for all your feedback =) It's been fun dipping my toes in the fandom!


End file.
